


into the empty parts of me

by MediaWhore



Series: animals howling in the night [1]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Denial, Episode: s01e06 Countrycide, F/M, Grief, Missing Scene, Owen Harper Centric, Owen Harper is bad at feelings, Pre-Episode: s01e06 Countrycide, Pre-Season/Series 01, Tosh has a crush on Owen, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23485441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MediaWhore/pseuds/MediaWhore
Summary: "3AM, Christmas Eve, in front of the Millenium Centre, waiting for a cab... I had mistletoe."A pre S1 missing scene in which Owen and Tosh kiss, then never talk about it again.
Relationships: Owen Harper/Toshiko Sato
Series: animals howling in the night [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1689415
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	into the empty parts of me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivegotfireforaheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivegotfireforaheart/gifts).



> it's one of my dearest friend's birthday today so i decided to write her a bit of torchwood angst. 
> 
> eline, i don't know what i was doing with owen in this but i'm kind of obsessed with the idea of him and tosh actually being friends, of him thinking he can read her even though he's an idiot who can't tell she has major feelings for him, and of him actually wanting her way back when but not really being ready to acknowledge something like this... hence this little ~missing moment was born. i hope you'll enjoy it, i wrote it for you. happy birthday <3333

“Well,” Owen says, wrinkling his nose as he looks upwards for a second, frowning at the drizzling rain that seems here to stay, “happy fucking Christmas to us.” 

Tosh hums next to him, a soft careful sound, and when Owen turns to look at her, she’s got her arms wrapped around herself, hands rubbing over her coat as she paces a little. 

It’s been a long day, followed by a long night shift, and of course, now that they’ve locked the Hub properly, the taxi they called a while ago is nowhere to be seen. 

“Spending the night monitoring the rift and doing an autopsy of that glowing spider… thing not part of your usual Christmas plans Owen?” Tosh teases, a small smirk in the corner of her mouth. 

He glasses are getting foggy, drops of rain obscuring her vision and still, Owen can see the way her eyes sparkle a little. 

He makes a show of huffing loudly but only makes it halfway through before he drops the posturing. “Oh, it’s my only tradition Tosh,” he replies sarcastically, words like bullets even when he’s joking. “Cutting open something alien and deadly.” He pauses before mumbling to himself: “I think I’ve still got some of that goo stuck to my eyebrows.” 

Tosh laughs. Mocking. Freely. She’s a bit drunk, Owen figures, looking at her relaxed posture in the dark. 

She’s still rubbing her arms, shivering a little in the cold wet night, but she seems less stiff than usual, cheeks a little flushed and the mistletoe branch she jokingly put on to brighten their night shift is still tangled in her hair, held up by a sparkling hair clip Owen never would have imagined  _ her  _ owning.

It’s his fault, he supposes.

He’s the one who got the liquor out, four hours after Jack and Suzie left them behind in favour of their Christmas plans, long after Ianto had disappeared fuck knows where, determined to make their shift at least bearable after they drew short straws. 

“Where the hell did you find this?” Tosh had said, shaking her head disapprovingly, but still smiling when he revealed the bottle, merely raising one eyebrow silently in her direction. 

Owen had tilted his head, giving her a disappointed look. “Tosh,” he had said slowly, “do you not know me at all?” 

She had laughed. Almost despite herself, looking back down at her keyboard right after like she regretted it. “Don’t let Jack find out you’re keeping that stuff in your desk.” 

“Like Jack cares.” 

She had hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. 

“So, nightcap?” 

“I’m not getting pissed at work Owen. I’ve still got to finish those calculations and we’re in charge if anything happens.” 

“Oh, Tosh don’t be so dull! Besides, who said anything about getting pissed? It’s bloody Christmas, this whole country is getting wasted to forget that they’re trapped with horrid relatives. We’re lucky enough to be at work in delightful extraterrestrial company,” Owen had said, looking down at the Med Bay where the glowing alien had been cut open, its gooey inside exposed on the table, “but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t get a drink and celebrate.” 

She had ignored him, pointedly typing on her keyboard, fingers flying across as she had kept working loudly. 

“Come on, Tosh....” he had said softly, walking towards her desk. “Just a small one, it’s Christmas.” He had said it a bit teasingly, pulling a little at the mistletoe in her hair, before starting to sing under his breath. “Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la, la la la la. ‘Tis the season to be jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la.”

She had sighed, rolling her eyes like only Toshiko Sato can, before finally looking away from her monitors to face him. 

“You never struck me as a particularly festive man.” 

“Good, I’m not,” he had agreed. “Now, care for a drink to make this neverending shift go a little faster or are you going to be productive this whole time?” 

“One drink,” she had agreed, except one drink quickly became two and two drinks became three, and soon enough they were sitting down next to each other on the floor of the Med Bay, one of the alien spider’s leg dangling from the table in front of them as they giggled and recalled their favourite ‘Stupid Shit Torchwood Said to Cover Up Aliens’ stories. At one point, Owen had said something horrendous but true about the general population they swore to protect and their stupidity and, as predicted, Tosh had snorted, a horrified look on her face despite her amusement. 

“Well, thank god you almost only deal with alien patients,  _ Doctor Harper _ ,” she had said pointedly. “Your bedside manners are terrible, I can’t imagine you dealing with actual people.” 

Remembering it now makes something painful squeeze deep in his chest, the memories of what led him to abandon his medical career never far from the surface despite active work on his part to bury them deep deep down. 

They’ve both had time to sober up, the night long enough for it, but there’s something about the way she’s holding herself that’s still different than usual. She’s never particularly hard to read, Owen finds, but there’s something less guarded about her he finds fascinating. It’s late enough to be called early, but the sun isn’t rising yet and Owen isn’t sure why, but he can’t quite take his eyes off her silhouette in the dark. 

“It suits you,” Tosh says, bringing Owen back to the moment. 

“What?” he asks, lips curling around the words, having long lost track of their conversation. 

“Alien goo on your eyebrows,” she replies, smirking just as the rain intensifies and she raises her shoulders, trying in vain to protect herself. Her hair is splattered unattractively in her face, the mistletoe now hanging sadly just above her ear. “Damnit,” she mumbles. “We should go under there,” she adds, pointing behind Owen where he knows the Millenium Centre stands and it’s a good idea, but he takes a step forward instead, animated by an impulse he can’t quite rationalise. 

“Owen?” she asks when he takes a second step forward, their bodies now so close he can feel her breathing. “What are you –” she starts saying, stopping herself when he reaches for her face, palm cradling her cheek. 

She feels warm, Owen thinks distantly, even in the cold. Then, he reaches for her with his other hand, touching her waist carefully, sliding his hand under the coat she stubbornly refused to zip, before kissing her.

She gasps against his lips and a part of him feels satisfied to know he’s taken her by surprise, but it doesn’t take very long for her to kiss him back, the air sizzling and electric between them. 

It’s only when they separate that Tosh looks at him with confusion, cheeks redder than before. Owen can see the way her brain catches up with what just happened, her eyes wide as they search his face

“What?” is all that she whispers underneath the sound of the rain and she’s so close to him he can hear her perfectly. 

“Mistletoe,” Owen mumbles, half a truth, tangling his hand in her hair where the branch still hangs by a thread. He barely lets his answer breathe between them before he kisses her again, hungrier this time, parched for her lips now that he’s had a taste. 

She reaches for him straight away, her fingers digging into his neck, giving as good as she’s receiving, and he lets his hand slide underneath her blouse, meeting the warmth of her lower back, skin he never imagined he’d want to touch. She bites his lower lip, making him grunt into her mouth and he wants to touch, wants to touch quite desperately, the intensity of the urge hitting him like a freight train. 

Owen isn’t sure how long they kiss under the rain. He loses track of time, of himself, still drunk, or maybe just drunk on her, he can’t tell anymore, dizzy with it, until the sound of a car distracts them from each other, wheels loud against the wet pavement and water splashing at the bottom of their trousers.

Their lips separate as fast as they merged, faster even, but they don’t quite let go of each other. Not yet. 

Their eyes meet and Owen swallows, hard. 

It would be so easy, he thinks vaguely, palm scorching where it’s still pressed in the small of her back, the feel of her skin against his flesh the only that feels  _ real _ in the night. 

It would be  _ too  _ easy, he mentally amends, gaze moving from her dark eyes to the cab, to slide in the back of that car with her, to give this man his address, to take her home. It would be too easy to kiss her against his doorstep, their entire bodies pressed against each other, taut with anticipation at the thought of being much closer. It would be too easy to drag her inside his flat, fumbling against his furniture in the dark, panting into each other’s mouth, hands roaming. It would be too easy to lead her to his bed, to spread her naked, to touch her, to let her touch  _ him _ , to make her come. 

It’d be good, he can already tell, and it's not like he's shy about meaningless sex, he’s done it dozens of times, with men and women, even with coworkers. It would be so easy to scratch that itch together.

And they both want to, he can feel it from the way Tosh is breathing, the way she’s clinging to his shoulders, hands still but somehow hungry, like she’s devouring him already through the mere pressing of her fingers through his jacket.

Yet, there’s something stuck in his throat that stops him from making that first move, from greeting that cabbie with a well practised cocky smile and a wink for Tosh. There’s something stuck in his throat that stops him from initiating this, something he can’t quite name. 

Tosh is kind is the thing. She’s sweet. She’s not like Suzie, or Jack. Or  _ him.  _ Jaded. Hurting back the world that hurts so freely. Oh, she’s Torchwood which can only mean she’s got damage of her own, they all do, attracted to each other and the disfunction – the thrill – of the job like moths to a flame. But Tosh laughs at his jokes, even the mean ones, and she remembers which Tesco meal deals he likes when she’s going on a quick snack run. He’d rather die than saying this out loud, especially to her, but she’s his friend. Fucking her wouldn’t be like fucking Suzie after a long night, adrenalin coursing through their bodies, sharing the relief of being alive with one of the few who can truly understand. If he’s honest with himself, he’s never thought about Tosh that way before tonight, never pictured the way their bodies might fit together, yet he knows it’d be different. 

It might just be the drinks or the late-early hour, but there’s a part of him that fears Tosh might linger in his mind if he pulls the trigger and does this. 

And he can’t afford her to. 

So he takes a step back, let’s go of her, his hand too soft on her back, too close to a caress, and he clears his throat loudly.

“You take that one Tosh,” he says, dropping the mistletoe he’s just realised was sticking to his fingers on the ground before rearranging his jacket. Then, he gestures towards the cab. “It’s late, you take it. I’ll walk,” he finally says, not even looking back at her before turning in the general direction of his flat and walking away. 

He doesn’t get home for ages and when he walks in, soaked to the bones, his eyes go straight to the picture of Katie he keeps next to his telly. He can’t see her smiling face in the dark, but he doesn’t need to, every single detail of her always burning in his memory. 

He tightens his hands into fists, then exhales shakily.

By the time Tosh mentions it on their ill-fated company camping trip, months and months and months later, Owen has put the entire thing so far behind him that the only thing he can snarl back, a bit mocking, is “Christmas? You’ve not had a snog since…” 


End file.
